


Dizzy on the Downfall

by Quinton_Hawk



Series: Quin's Cinderella Phenomenon addiction [1]
Category: Cinderella Phenomenon (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Jealousy, Lucette/Mythros lightly implied if you blink you'll miss it., Myth Kicks Ass: The Movie, Myth Loses It: The Book, Mythros Does What He Wants, Obsession, Some Swearing, What Have I Done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:35:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22201183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quinton_Hawk/pseuds/Quinton_Hawk
Summary: No mercy was given that he was not afforded. He recalls the day it all ended with a glass of red wine in his hand.He remembers all too well how he was thrown to the wolves.(You just watch, traitor. No matter how many times you throw me to the wolves, I’ll come back leading the pack. You'll see.)
Relationships: Lucette Riella Britton/Mythros, Lucette/Mythros
Series: Quin's Cinderella Phenomenon addiction [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1610977
Comments: 1
Kudos: 13





	Dizzy on the Downfall

He was _done_ being careful.

He had been so, so careful ever since his Queen had fallen under her own spell and was trapped away in her beautiful crystal prison.

The Tenebrarum. It was… _magnificent_. Especially so with her lovely face beyond the glittering surface. He was so careful when he traced the tips of his fingers across the surface to frame her delicate features.

It had felt cold. Freezing, even. Like carved ice, but this magic would never melt away or fade. Under his Queen’s watchful eye, the magic would only grow stronger.

He never thought that a day would come where he would actually wish it wouldn’t. He wished it would shatter beneath the heel of his boot or be crushed in his fist.

He was never a man who would entertain silly things like boorish violence.

Let the knights and the other – inferior to him, might he had- royal adviser take care of that. He would much rather stand over the chessboard and command an army than be a part of it.

Ask anyone who knew him or knew of him, and they would tell you that he was not a violent man. They’d tell you that something about him was ‘ _off’_ , but no one had ever seen him lose control in the slightest. He would only use physical force against someone if it was necessary to protect his Queen, and even then, he did it in an ingenious and almost artful way.

‘Senseless Violence’, he had called it. But now, covered in crimson blood so thick that he couldn’t see the green of his coat anymore, he was starting to warm to the idea.

The dam finally broke, the final straw dropped, the other foot fell. It was finally, _finally_ time for the tables to turn.

His clenched fists spelled out in capital letters for every bastard he was out to get to read that he was ready to rip anything apart limb from limb until this overwhelming anger would leave him be.

He felt fucking betrayed. He’s been betrayed before, many times, but he wanted so badly to just take it out on someone, to lose control, so he did.

Didn’t he deserve it? To let go and finally have his vengeance?

(I mean, didn’t they have it coming? They committed treason.)

A nice excuse, a very nice one that would earn her favor in the end. He knows she’s tired of being careful too.

With his teeth grit and grinning wide, his shining golden eyes gleam with the flames that burned far too close to his skin and burned away what little family he had.

He remembers twine and shackles digging into his skin until he bled.

(Your fault. Yours too.)

Brutish? Maybe.

But he can’t deny the thrill. The danger, his heart pounding against his rib-cage, it had him feeling delirious on the warmth of the blood from the tip of his dagger and the feeling of his magic cracking bones apart with nothing but a flip of his wrist.

He feels _powerful_.

For the first time in years he openly laughs. Loudly, fully, and without restraint he laughs because _it’s just so **hilarious**_. 

It’s so incredibly laughable. They think they can actually _stop him_? When he feels this alive? He is finally getting the justice that he wanted – the justice that this world needed.

He can’t help himself as he finally let’s all the dirty little secrets slip through his teeth. Her green eyes taunt him instead of tempt him now.

~~_(“Aren’t you proud of me now? Aren’t you?! Don’t you see I only did all of this because of you?”)_ ~~

He hates how desperate he sounds.

He watches at the flames get higher and higher until he’s sure that the sky itself is ablaze. The destruction and the screams make a harmony that’s simply _music to his ears_. He can taste the heat in the air and it makes him want just a little bit more before he has to pretend it was all an accident.

Well, at first, it _was_ an accident. He didn’t even register his actions or what he had done until the first body hit the ground. He didn’t even realize that he could hear the last heartbeat if he concentrated until the third.

By then it was just too late to stop.

Instead of regret or pain he finally feels victorious.

He watches even more intently than before as golden ashes fall to the floor, his heartbeat in his throat.

(Tell me that I’m inferior now. Ha. Checkmate.)

He turns them to soot and stomps the embers out with a grin.

For once, he was riding on the razor’s edge and savoring the pleasure of their pain that they far beyond deserved.

The bloodshed was nothing compared to the psychological warfare that he’s mastered anyway. He thought that he was far more equipped to be the mastermind, and perhaps he was, but he had no idea that tearing down the curtains and letting everything else that he hated die would be so easy.

He was never told – not even by Hildyr – how good it felt to know that he had the winning hand and the last laugh. How dizzying the sound of necks snapping off their frail shoulders could be, and how high you could get off it all.

Another fell, but he didn’t care. He did care, however, when he saw the man’s face. There he was, in the flesh, black hair, red eyes, and every vile hatred that rushed to the surface of Myth’s mind. Waltz.

What a fool, – Myth thought – what a wretched fool’s choice to fight me.

His head spun with all the way he could make him suffer. He’d imagined it a thousand times. Slowly, painfully, draw it out and make him wish he was dead.

He didn’t have the patience to play his own games.

The magician was already knocked back off his feet.

_(Under the heel of my boot, tell me you’re better than me now._

_Do it._

_So that I can **rip your fucking eyes out, Cresswell.** )_

He got up to attack again, but it was useless.

The fight was a short one – Myth would later comment that he’s had sneezes that lasted longer and would laugh – but he relished every second of the pain he could inflict.

Myth had only one wound when all was said and done. Waltz, after trying to talk Myth down and out of his rage and failing, had stabbed him. Right in the left shoulder.

…With a dagger that _Hildyr gave him._

The pain was unbearable, he had been in pain before, but this made his vision fill with black spots. He was sure it went right through his joint. It would make sense, since he could no longer move his arm at all.

(He thinks that years later, he will still have days where his shoulder will hurt. He will smile at the scar and remember the day that he won once and for all.)

He saw that knife, the one that should be his instead, and every bit of remaining strength, fury and regret turned into adrenaline in his veins as he wrenched the knife right out of his arm.

He felt it pop from the socket and tear through muscle, and he _screamed_. He screamed at the top of his lungs in pain and in rage, rage that no words he could ever utter would do justice to.

Waltz stepped back, his red eyes widening.

Myth took that knife – it should have been his anyway, right? He was the stronger apprentice and he was about to prove it – and he drove it right into one of his pathetic red eyes.

(Twisting the knife and hearing Waltz’s cry of agony made an unimaginable glee wash across his skin. He feels new and alive, _breathing_ , and finally taking what he has always wanted.)

He saw the ex-apprentice lying on the ground mere minutes from certain death and unable to fight back anymore. He was holding his hands over the handle of the knife and screaming until his throat bled.

Some part of Myth in the darkest corner of his mind that he had thought died in the war resurfaced. It was just for a moment, but the doubt only served to make him angrier now.

That small part of him wanted to help Waltz up. That small part of him knew that they were both only hurt this badly because of _her_. It was the reason that they both turned out this way, wasn’t it? They were broken in different places, but broken nonetheless.

Then he remembers that he was not afforded the same mercy.

Myth recalls how Waltz had everything that he had wanted and then dropped it like it was nothing to him, leaving Myth to bleed in the dust under the rule of the Witch Queen herself.

He would have been so much stronger now if it wasn’t for him.

**_He remembers all too well how he was thrown to the wolves._ **

(You just watch, traitor. No matter how many times you throw me to the wolves, I’ll come back leading the pack. You’ll see.)

For that sake, he reaches out and rips out the knife and makes sure it will never happen again.

He tosses the blade aside and takes out the other eye with his bare hand on his good arm, drowning out the red color of Waltz’s eyes with the red color of his blood.

He ends this decades long fight in a torch-lit room of cobblestone. On his knees and covered in blood, he feels drowned in sin but also like he has been crowned King of a thousand lands.

He was the only one left alive among the dead, a phoenix rising above the ashes.

(One, two, ten, twenty, one hundred dead on the floor around him for all he cares.)

The smile stays on his face long after telling the King well-placed clever lies, long past feigned grieving at funerals, and is refreshed when he tears down the portrait of his Queen and burns it himself.

~~(the crackling of the fire feels like blades in his shoulder.)~~

_And as he watches the beautiful Princess Lucette – soon to be Queen Lucette – walk up to him and pin a medal of heroism to his coat, he swears his loyalty once again._

**~~…Hildyr is dead…~~ **

Long live his Queen.


End file.
